Chapter 19 Harrison
CHAPTER NINETEEN
HARRISON
Connor’s practice is already underway when I slip into the rink, the air cold and familiar in a way that settles something restless in my chest. The boards hum with the echo of pucks and shouts, skates carving lines into the ice like it’s second nature, which, for these kids, it is.
For him, it definitely is.
Connor rockets past the blue line, stick handling with a confidence that makes my lips twitch before I can stop it.
He’s fast. Not reckless but controlled. He keeps his head up, anticipates the pass, adjusts his stride like he’s thinking three steps ahead.
I fold my arms across my chest and lean against the glass dumbfounded because holy fuck, that’s my kid out there.
My kid.
The thought feels unreal every time it surfaces. It’s exciting but heavy and downright terrifying. I’m afraid to say it out loud, afraid to even mouth it for fear that I’ll wake up and this will all have been some sort of horrible dream and Connor won’t exist.
So instead, I just let the idea of fatherhood sit there between my ribs, pulsing.
Around me, parents chatter softly, sipping coffee, scrolling phones.
None of them know what this is doing to me, watching a ten-year-old boy who shares my blood skate across the ice, completely unaware that my entire world is quietly rearranging itself around him.
I catch myself tracking him automatically.
Where he’s positioned, how he angles his shoulders, when he hesitates—just a fraction of a second too long—before shooting.
He misses the net wide.
I wince like I feel it in my bones because been there done that, but to my surprise, Connor laughs, shakes it off, and circles back into the play like missing never mattered.
That’s when it hits me.
This isn’t about hockey.
This is about being there when he misses and reminding him it’s okay.
About watching him try.
About loving him even when he falls flat on his ass.
I swallow hard and drag a hand over my face. Being a father isn’t about showing up with answers. It’s about showing up. Period.
The practice wraps up and Connor skates toward the bench, cheeks flushed, hair plastered to his forehead. That’s when he spots me, his eyes lighting up like someone flipped a switch.
“Harrison!” he yells, nearly tripping over his own skates as he scrambles off the ice.
I push off the glass and meet him halfway, crouching automatically as he barrels into me, pads and all.
“You were awesome out there, bud,” I tell him, meaning it with every fiber of my being.
He grins. “Did you see my almost-goal?”
“I did. You almost had it! But you know what made me super proud of you out there?”
“What?”
“You were patient,” I answer. “You shook off the mistake and kept going. You even smiled. A positive attitude like that is hard to teach.”
His chest puffs up like I just handed him a trophy.
Harper approaches from behind him, gym bag slung over her shoulder, hair pulled back in a low ponytail. She smiles when she sees me, soft and a little shy. It’s still something that makes my pulse trip.
“You didn’t tell me you were coming,” she says.
“I know.” I shrug. “Wasn’t sure I’d get out of my team meeting on time and I didn’t want to distract him.”
Her expression warms. “Well, I’m glad you’re here.”
Connor starts peeling off his gloves, talking a mile a minute about drills and a kid who chirped him and how he totally chirped back but, like, respectfully.
Harper and I laugh and for a few minutes, everything between us feels normal.
Like we’re a real family. We sit on the bench together while Connor unlaces his skates, humming off-key.
I help him tug one skate free and he doesn’t even question it.
He just hands it to me like this is how it’s always been.
That simple trust nearly wrecks me.
“So,” Harper says casually, nudging my knee with hers, “are you ready for tonight?”
Tonight.
I straighten a little. “Yeah. I think so.”
Connor looks up immediately. “What’s tonight?”
I glance at Harper, who raises a brow like go ahead.
“I’m taking your mom out,” I say carefully.
Connor cocks his head, squinting at the both of us. “Like…on a date?”
Heat creeps up my neck. “Uh, yeah,” I say. “Sort of. The guys on the team invited us to go out with them so they can meet your mom. And their wives and girlfriends want to meet her too.”
Harper clears her throat but she’s smiling.
Connor considers this seriously. Then he nods. “Okay. That’s cool.”
I blink. “That’s it?”
“Yeah,” he says, hopping down from the bench. “Just don’t be weird.”
Harper snorts and I laugh.
“I’ll do my best,” I promise him.
As we walk toward the exit together, Connor planted comfortably between us, it hits me again, this quiet, terrifying, incredible truth.
This is what I want.
Not perfection. Not instant forgiveness. Not a neatly wrapped family bow.
Just moments like this.
Showing up.
Standing beside them.
And hoping, with everything I’ve got, that it’s enough.
“Are we getting burgers?” Connor asks with a shit-eating grin as if he knows he can use this moment of softness between us to get something he wants.
He’s right. I’m a sucker for this kid. I’d gladly give him the world to make up for all the time I’ve lost.
I grin and then ask him, “Is that the only acceptable food group?”
“Yes,” he says solemnly.
Harper rolls her eyes. “He had a perfectly balanced lunch yesterday.”
Connor shrugs. “I had apple slices. That counts, right?”
“Burgers with apple slices,” I decide. “Compromise.”
Connor pumps his fist. “Yes! Deal!”
We take my truck, Connor in the back seat, narrating the drive like he’s hosting a podcast about Anaheim traffic.
Harper sits shotgun, her knee bouncing slightly, fingers tapping against her thigh like she’s nervous but trying not to be.
I pretend not to notice but what I want to do is reach across and palm her thigh.
With Connor in the back seat though, I keep my eyes on the road and continue to act like the gentleman I was raised to be all while knowing if I had her alone and in my bedroom, I’d have her on her knees.
The place I take them is casual, loud, and nothing fancy. With red vinyl booths and greasy menus, it’s the kind of place where you can’t hear your own thoughts, which feels about right.
Connor slides into the booth across from me and immediately grabs the menu like it’s sacred text.
“I already know what I want,” he announces.
“Of course you do,” Harper says.
My knee bumps hers under the table. She freezes for half a second, her eyes finding mine, and then she relaxes.
Good.
We order, Connor rattling off his entire meal in one breath like he’s afraid the waitress might escape, and we then settle in.
For a few minutes, it’s just easy conversation.
We chat about school, practice, and how Connor’s math homework is “basically illegal.” Harper teases him and he fires back.
Turns out the kid’s got a clear understanding of sarcasm.
He gets that from his mother.
I watch them both, quietly cataloging things I want to remember, and then Connor tilts his head at me. “Did you eat at places like this when you were my age?”
I snort. “No way. My mom was way stricter than yours.”
Harper smiles. “Shocking.”
“Hey,” I say defensively, “I was a good kid.”
Connor looks unconvinced.
“I didn’t even start skating until I was ten,” I continue. “Before that, I just chased pucks around in sneakers.”
Connor’s eyes widen. “Really?”
“Really. It took a while for my mom to see that I really enjoyed the ice and wanted to be there as much as possible.”
He sits back, processing that. “So, I’m already better than you were.”
I point at him, pretending to be stern, and swallow my laugh. “Careful, kid. Confidence is good but cockiness gets you benched.”
Harper laughs, covering her mouth.
The food arrives and Connor dives in like he hasn’t eaten in days. Ketchup everywhere. Bun sliding. It’s absolute chaos and I love it.
I watch Harper watch him, the way her expression softens automatically, and something settles in my chest again.
This isn’t a fantasy.
This is real.
At one point, Connor excuses himself to the bathroom, leaving Harper and me alone in the booth. The noise around us fades just enough for the space between us to feel charged.
She picks at her fries. “Thank you for this.”
“For lunch?”
“For…everything.” Her eyes meet mine, steady but searching. “For showing up. For being here.”
I swallow. “I want to be here. You know that.”
“I know,” she says softly. “It still means something.”
I nod, not trusting my voice.
Connor returns, talking at full volume about how the bathroom mirror is “like a funhouse,” and the moment passes between Harper and me. Not in a bad way. More like it’s tucked away, waiting.
When we finally stand to leave, Connor lags behind, tying his shoe so I stop to wait for him, watching.
Harper leans closer to me. “You okay?”
I glance at her, then at the kid who’s unknowingly changed my entire life.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “I think I am. Also, you did a great job teaching him to tie his shoes.”
Jay’s Bar is loud in the way only a place full of hockey players and their partners can be. Half laughter, half trash talk, with the bass thumping just enough that it feels like a heartbeat. We’ve barely made it through the door before Oliver claps his hands together like a cruise director.
“Alright, couples on the right, chaos on the left,” he announces.
Scarlett groans. “You are not in charge of this outing.”
“False,” Bodhi says, already ordering shots. “He’s been planning this since noon.”